Recovery
by the ticking clock
Summary: Natasha has always hated hospitals.


**This was inspired by a post on tumblr. I hope it is alright that I wrote this fanfic and posted it here...if not I will take it down. **

post/92619244965/my-god-someone-write-a-fic-where-natasha-is-at

**That is the link to the post. **

**Anyway, please let me know what you think of this fic? **

Natasha has always hated hospitals. They are far to white and sterile-hospitals are a place of death. She wants nothing more than to grab her bag and run from this place. It isn't safe here, Hydra is everywhere, and every instinct is screaming at her to run, run, run.

But she can't leave. She owes them-Sam and Steve. The two ridiculous, brave men who have been by her side through all of this.

She leaves Sam sitting by Steve's bedside. "Do you want anything?"

He looks up at her. There are tired bags under his eyes, but he still smiles. "No, we're good. Right, Steve?" He rubs his thumb over the other man's hand. Steve does not open his eyes.

"Okay," she says, "I'll just be a minute." This place is suffocating, and stepping out of Steve's cramped little room offers her no comfort. She curls her hands into fists as she walks, because she wants to hit something, she wants to be able to breathe again, she wants to get out of here-

"Natasha?"

The voice pulls her up short, because of course she would know it anywhere-with it's gentle caress around the sound of her name, but still tense and sharp with worry. Natasha.

She turns.

He's standing a few paces behind her, a safe distance; he knows that hospitals put her on edge. He is filthy, covered in dirt and blood that is dried so she cannot tell if it is his or someone else's. But he's looking at her and smiling. His eyes, although slightly unfocused, still the same, soft blue.

They haven't seen each other in weeks-and although she's been longing for him, she doesn't know now whether she wants to kiss him or punch him.

"Are you okay?" he asks, and takes another staggering step towards her. She flinches, but does not step away. He reaches a hand out, almost close enough to touch. She can see that there is even flecks of blood on his eyelashes when he blinks.

"Yes?" Her voice rises unconsciously, making it a question.

"Good," the word is a soft exhale. His lips quirk up into something like a smile. "because I'm not."

She knows what is going to happen-she can see it in the trembling of his hand and the crease of stress lines on his face and the unfocused blue of his eyes.

Clint falls, and she catches him. Always.

Her first instinct is not to scream. She presses two fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse. It's erratic.

She does not really trust the doctors, but…

"Sam!" It's not really a scream-more of a steady command. She is calm. She is in control. She is Black Widow.

He comes, because even though she is calm he can probably hear the tension in her voice.

"Oh shit," He whispers. "Shit, man, we have to-"

"Help me with him," She says, and slips one of Clint's arms over her head, pulling him across her shoulders. Sam picks up the other side, and together they half carry, half drag him down the hall.

* * *

Clint is warm against her side.

This feels almost normal-curled up beside him, her head resting just at his collar bone, hands intertwined and their feet tangled together. She ignores the beeps of the hospital monitors and just breathes him in. He smells like soap and sweat and dirt and blood and Clint.

"Hey," Sam sticks his head around the door. "Steve's starting to wake-" His voice trails off as he sees them together, Clint, asleep, Natasha, squeezed into his hospital bed. Their fingers locked together. "Oh." He blinks, and grins, because he's Sam, and says, "That's how it is. Well, he's starting to wake up. He's really out of it, but…"

Natasha nods. "I'll stop by once this one wakes up." She squeezes Clint's hand a little tighter. "Keep me posted."

It's clearly a dismissal. Sam nods, and leaves.

* * *

Clint wakes up a quarter of an hour later, turning his cheek against Natasha's hair and murmuring, "Tasha?" His voice is slurred with sleep and morphine.

She smiles. "Hey."

He blinks, "Hi," One hand lifts, tugging at the iv in his arm to brush against her cheek. She catches his fingers and holds it there.

"How are you feeling?"

"Never better," He quirks a smile.

She wants to ask him what happened, how he found them, if he knew about Hydra, but there are shadows in his eyes and she knows better than to push him right away. "Steve woke up," she says instead.

His eyes widen. "I have to see him."

"Clint-"

He pushes her away and struggles into a sitting position.

"Clint, don't be-"

"Nat, I'm fine," He stresses the last word, sharp, "You've seen me walk three miles through the mountains with a bullet in me. This is nothing. I have to see him."

She wants to argue that the incident with the bullet was an entirely different scenario, but she doesn't. There is no stopping Clint when he is determined to do something. "Fine," she says, rolling her eyes, and jumps off the bed to stand next to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him to his feet. "Let's go."

* * *

Steve is still awake when they reach him.

Sam is sitting in the chair beside his bed, telling some joke. He's laughing, and Steve is smiling like he wants to laugh but doesn't have the energy. They stop as Clint and Natasha enter the room. Sam's face pales.

"Hawk-"

Clint ignores him. Natasha helps him over to Steve.

Clint's face is a mask, but she can feel him trembling with emotion. "Howdy partner," He says.

Steve grins. "You look terrible."

Clint laughs. "You don't look so bad yourself for a 90 year old man."

"I moisturize."

Natasha laughs too, and eases Clint down onto the edge of Steve's bed. "How you feeling?" She asks.

Steve grimaces. "You know…" He gives her a small smile, and she is sure they will talk about Bucky later, that he will rage and storm and cry about his friend the assassin. She does not have the words to comfort him now.

"Hey," Clint says, serious now. "I wanted to thank you, Cap, for looking out for Natasha."

Steve barks a hoarse laugh. "She can look after herself."

"I know," Clint grins. "Still. I know you were dealing with a lot of shit, and I wasn't there and Stark wasn't there, and God knows were Thor and Banner were, but we should have been there. We should have helped you. But you did it all by yourself-you protected Sam and Natasha and you stayed alive. So, thanks." He holds out his hand.

Steve takes it. "You're welcome."

Natasha sits down next to Clint, throws her arm over his shoulders, and slaps Steve's knee. "Don't ever scare us like that again, Cap," she says, "Or I'll have to kill you myself."

Steve smiles. "I'll try."

They stay like that, Sam by Steve's head, Clint and Natasha by his feet, talking, until the nurse comes and kicks them out.

* * *

Natasha helps Clint back to his room.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He asks, and she knows that he isn't talking about her body. He's talking about Fury. About SHIELD. About losing everything they've ever built together.

She smiles, and shakes her head, bending down to kiss his cheek. "No," she says, "And you aren't either. But we'll figure something out. We'll survive. We always do."

He smiles, closes his eyes.

She sits with him all night while he sleeps, and reminds herself to breathe.


End file.
